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still feeling those pinpricks of pain from the coughing fit who knew how many hours ago, he realised that the main light in his room was illuminated.
    That, once more, the bright, white light had returned.
    That meant it was daytime.
    Heinmein had put the lights in the entire Compound on a timer so that it might emulate the day.
    But the sun was one thing, and artificial light was another.
    And Mitts couldn’t say that he felt any the better for the bright, white light which streamed through the room.
    Now, though, Mitts was alone.
    He looked across the room, to the plastic container, where his father had been sat. The torch was still there, lying on top of it. And the book his father had been reading was there too.
    Mitts breathed in deeply. He wondered if he had the strength—if he still had the strength—to hoik himself up. To set himself on his own two feet.
    There was only one way to find out.
    He had to try.
    Mitts shovelled off his blanket—easier to summon the strength than he had imagined—and he eased his body over to the edge of his camp bed.
    The slipping and sliding of the springs beneath him sent jitters through his body.
    He so wished that they would be silent.
    He recalled his bed back home, when he could easily move around without making so much as a sound. That time was gone , though . . . no point wondering after the past . . .
    Now at the edge of his bed, Mitts summoned the strength to dangle his legs, to have his toenails scrape the laminate flooring.
    He glanced up to his bedroom door, half expecting to see either his mother or father there, looking on.
    With some vacant expression on their face.
    But there was no one.
    He was alone.
    Somewhat heartened by his efforts so far, Mitts used the metal frame of his camp bed to help himself up onto the soles of his feet. Still holding the metal frame, he felt his balance come and go, as if he hadn’t stood for weeks rather than a matter of hours.
    Finally, he caught the courage to stand by himself.
    Though he didn’t feel one-hundred-percent natural standing on his own two feet, he could keep himself more or less still.
    That was the important thing.
    Just stand up.
    All for now.
    After what must’ve been a minute, Mitts eased himself along past his camp bed, headed for the door of his bedroom. Although he had no destination in mind beyond that, he couldn’t help but make it his goal. It was only when he’d got about halfway across his bedroom floor that he realised he had a strong urge to urinate.
    He glanced toward the en-suite bathroom, realising he would need to make a detour.
    It took him the best part of what must’ve been a minute to reach it.
    When he got done in there, he realised he could hear voices out in the corridor.
    Outside his bedroom.
    Still standing in the bathroom, Mitts concentrated his hearing onto those people, trying to separate the voices into identities.
    He recognised one voice as belonging to his father.
    Feeling that same queasiness coming on—that same giddy sensation—Mitts blinked several times, managing to clear it away as best he could.
    As his father’s voice droned on—Mitts could make no sense of the words—he realised that he must be out in the corridor with Heinmein.
    Mitts held his ground, wanting to see where this conversation was headed. But he realised, from where he stood, there would be very little he could make out distinctly.
    So he headed back to his bed.
    He slumped down.
    Sent the springs of the camp-bed mattress creaking all over again.
    Mitts drew his blanket back over himself, only then realising he was wearing the black fleece he would often put on for those unexpectedly cold early mornings.
    He supposed either his mother or father had decided he needed the extra warmth and had dressed him in it.
    Mitts could still hear his father’s juddering voice in the one-way conversation. He willed it to stop. It was almost as if every word his father spoke was a hammer pounding his skull.
    He could